Thorne nodded and stared into his remaining inch or so of Guinness.
Be careful what you wish for…
‘Well, this is fun,’ Hendricks said. He looked from Thorne to Brigstocke and back. ‘Listen, I’ve got a cracking story about a toddler and a cement truck. You know, if we need to cheer things up a bit.’
‘You should come down for a few days.’ Frances Coombs tried to keep the nervousness from her voice. She was trying not to sound too keen, either. That never worked. ‘You’d like it, love.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ As usual, her daughter made rather less effort to disguise the way she felt. ‘Looks a bit boring.’
So, she’d looked. That was a start, at least. ‘It’s sunny.’ Frances laughed, a twenty-a-day crackle. ‘Well, sunnier than Hackney, anyway.’
‘I’ve got things on.’
‘What things?’
‘Seeing mates, whatever.’
‘I’m only talking about a few days. There’s a smashing pier… a lovely new art gallery. All that modern stuff, I think.’
‘Since when did you care about art?’
‘Nice day out, that’s all.’
Her daughter sniffed. There was music playing in the background, urgent and angry as she was.
‘I’m just saying, Nat…’
Six years of this, and Frances couldn’t even remember how it had happened. Not the details, the hows and whens, but she knew it was all her fault. Back then, it had been hard to hide what she was doing from a nosy teenager, all her business things laid out in the front room; the phones in their boxes, the spray bottles and the Mars bars.
The smell of what was in those little plastic wraps.
Easier to recall how she herself had got into the business, of course. She’d known what her late husband had been up to, how he’d topped up his monthly pay packet from the prison. When he’d gone, it had all been there on his phone, the details of the people he’d been working for, and, a couple of calls later, she’d stepped into his shoes. She’d kept it in the family, but that hadn’t meant she’d wanted her daughter to have anything to do with it.
Maybe she could have tried harder to keep it from her little girl, but what was she supposed to do? She didn’t have the room, and besides, nobody with any sense was ever going to think she was an Avon lady, were they? It didn’t matter much now, she supposed, exactly how her daughter had got into this mess. Somebody dropping merchandise off at the flat one day, a flirtatious conversation Frances couldn’t do much about, and the next thing, Nathalie’s getting a discount on the harder stuff, because her mother’s on the payroll.
Mates’ rates.
All her fault, but no point crying about it, and ever since she’d been doing the only thing she could: putting the money away and waiting until there was enough to get her daughter into one of those programmes. Get her cleaned up. She hadn’t thought much about how she’d do that, how she was going to persuade her to go. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it, drag the silly little mare there if she had to, but the first thing was to get enough money put by, and her pension wasn’t going to do the job, was it? She’d been scared to death after that business with Andrew Evans, when everything got put on hold, but now she was back at work and that nest egg could start growing again.
There was a fair bit already, but she knew she was going to need more.
She’d need to get her nut down, maybe offer to start making visits a bit further afield. Take a few more jobs on. There were a couple of Young Offender places that were only a bus ride away…
The irony wasn’t lost on her. How could it be? The fact that she was turning those poor souls behind bars into junkies, in the name of helping the one she’d given birth to.
‘So, what do you reckon, then?’
‘I said. I’m busy.’
‘I’ll send you the train fare.’
‘If you want.’
Frances regretted the offer immediately. She knew that her daughter would not come as surely as she knew what the money would actually be spent on. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages, love.’
‘Christ, don’t start that.’
‘Start what?’ Frances strained to hear her daughter’s voice above the music.
‘The shit about how much you worry.’
‘Well, I can’t help it, can I?’
‘Have you any idea how much that stresses me out?’
‘Sorry —’
‘Drives me mental…’
Frances stared down from her window at the darkened street. Another one of those hideous seagulls was pecking at something in the middle of the road. A young couple sat with cans of something on a low wall. ‘It’s what parents do, isn’t it? Who knows, maybe one day you’ll have kids of your own and then you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.’ She watched as the girl sitting on the wall lobbed her empty can at the bird, which hopped nonchalantly away. ‘How’s it going with that bloke you were seeing, anyway? Dwayne, is it?’
But her daughter had gone.
Thorne called from outside the pub, the fresh air welcome, though that did not stop him gratefully sucking in the cigarette smoke that was drifting across from a group gathered a few feet away and chatting noisily.
He said, ‘I just wanted to let you know it’s looking like a late one.’
‘OK,’ Helen said.
‘Russell’s making me pay, you know?’
‘You’re not driving, are you?’
‘Don’t be stupid. Probably do a few people a favour if I did and got done for it, though.’
‘So, I’ll see you in the morning then.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, just tired, that’s all. Alfie was a sod tonight.’
‘Just, you sound a bit…’
Helen grunted a laugh. ‘And you sound a bit… too.’
‘Jenny say something, did she?’
There were a few seconds of silence, broken only by the braying of the group smoking nearby. Students, Thorne reckoned, or maybe newbies from Colindale station. It was hard to tell the difference, sometimes.
‘No.’
‘We need to deal with it, you know. Or I need to deal with it. God knows —’
‘I haven’t spoken to Jenny in days, all right?’
‘You said once she used to have a go at Paul too, remember? So, maybe it’s just because she doesn’t think coppers should be together, like it’s not healthy or something. Well, good news, because she might not have to worry about that for too much longer.’
‘I’m going to bed now, Tom —’
‘She’ll probably find something else to bitch about, mind you.’ Thorne drew in a long breath and, in a rush of clarity, he realised that he was taking his bad mood out on her. It was exactly what he’d accused Helen of doing. ‘Phil suggested I pay for a hitman.’ He forced a chuckle, to highlight the fact that he was being comical, that he’d let it go. ‘To take your sister out. What do you reckon?’
‘How many have you had?’
‘A few,’ Thorne said. ‘Not enough.’
He watched one of the smokers flick their fag-end into the gutter and, for a few moments, he toyed with the idea of stepping across and arresting the snotty little toerag for littering. Maybe, while he was at it, he could nick the rest of them before they had a chance to do the same. That was nice and proactive, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t cost a great deal either, so he wouldn’t be laying his career on the line, placing an unnecessary drain on resources.
Win-win.
Helen said, ‘Don’t fall asleep on the Tube.’
FIFTY-SEVEN
The young man sitting opposite her had been all smiles when he’d first come in, of course. Pleased to see her, and why wouldn’t he be, but now that he’d got what he came for he was obviously keen to be on his way and get stuck into what she’d brought him. He didn’t seem comfortable with chit-chat.
‘Keep smiling,’ the Duchess said.
‘What?’
‘You’re very happy
I’m here, remember?’
The boy did his best, like he was posing for a photograph.
‘Much better,’ she said. ‘And keep talking.’
‘How much longer, though?’
Skinny, in T-shirt and sweats, he was fifteen, but he looked even younger, and that sulky tone was one she was all too familiar with. Nat had never grown out of it. ‘It’s a full visit, OK? Everything needs to look normal, that’s the whole point. Especially if I’m going to be coming back to see you again.’ She reached forward and patted his pale hand. ‘Like we’ve got a relationship of some sort, Tony.’
‘What sort of relationship?’
‘Like maybe I’m your gran or an auntie or something. Or just one of those do-gooder types who likes to pop in and keep your spirits up.’ She cast a glance towards the nearest prison officer, who was not paying much attention to anything beyond what he was trying to extract from his nostril. ‘They’re not allowed to ask, so it doesn’t matter which. But if I just pop in for five minutes and leave again, it might start to look a bit suspicious, don’t you reckon?’
The boy shrugged.
‘Tony?’
He smiled again, just his mouth making the necessary shape. He said, ‘How old are you, anyway?’
‘A lady does not disclose her age,’ the Duchess said.
Old enough to know better.
‘Suit yourself,’ the boy said. ‘Just a bit freaky, that’s all.’
First time here and it had all gone very nicely. She’d been told which officers were happy to look the other way, same as her old man had used to do, and which cameras to avoid. The people she worked for always had good information. She’d gone straight to the vending machine to buy the chocolate bar she’d switch for the one in her bag, and passing the moody one across hadn’t been a problem. The boy had carefully eaten as much as he’d had to, then made the necessary move to hide what was inside like he’d been doing it for years.
The new ones got taught fast enough.
‘I’ve brought you a letter from your mum,’ the Duchess said.
The boy looked confused for a second or two, then nodded.
She reached into her handbag for the letter she’d prepared the night before, smiled as she slid it across the table.
‘Cheers,’ the boy said.
‘No.’ She shook her head, stopping the boy as he moved to put the letter into the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. ‘Read it.’ She leaned closer, smiling, and dropped her voice. ‘It’s a letter from home, OK? Aren’t you happy about that? Try to look like it means something and you aren’t just desperate to tear it up and smoke it.’
The boy nodded, clearly a little scared of her, which she thought was no bad thing. He mouthed the words as he read the letter, slowly.
‘Now, smile and put it away, there’s a good lad.’
The boy did as he was told, stole a look at the clock mounted high on the far wall.
‘So, why are you here, Tony?’
He looked at her.
‘There’s plenty of time to kill.’ She sat back. ‘So we might as well make the most of it.’
‘I nicked a car.’ He folded his arms. ‘A smart one.’
‘That’s not too bad, is it?’
‘Yeah, well. I did a bit of damage as well. Hit some bloke in his stupid little Vauxhall Astra, and it wasn’t even like it was my fault.’
‘Was he OK?’
‘A week in hospital. A week… and I get eighteen months. Like that’s fair.’
‘It’ll go quick enough,’ she said. ‘Especially if I’m coming in to see you nice and regular.’
‘Shit.’
‘Well, it’s entirely up to you, but —’ She stopped, aware now that the boy was looking past her. She glanced round to see a prison officer approaching fast; a man and a woman close behind him who did not look like staff. She turned back to the boy, whose head had already dropped, but not before seeing that everyone else in the visiting area was watching the group as they walked towards her table. It was evidently clear to anyone with an eye for such things that they were not here to visit anyone.
‘Mrs Fleming?’
By the time the woman at the table looked up, Tanner and Thorne already had their warrant cards out. Tanner told the woman who they were.
Thorne raised a hand, waved. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’
‘Would you mind coming with us for a quick word?’
‘This is an authorised prison visit,’ the woman said.
‘Really?’ Thorne nodded down at the boy, who had not raised his head. ‘He doesn’t look too thrilled about it.’
‘Or we can just arrest you right here,’ Tanner said. ‘Nice and loudly. I suppose it depends on how quickly you’d like the people you work for to find out about it.’
The Duchess looked up at her, across at the onlookers on every table. She carefully lifted her handbag from the floor and pushed her chair back.
‘Good choice,’ Tanner said.
Thorne pointed to the boy and to the empty Mars bar wrapper on the table. He nudged the prison officer next to him. ‘There you go, mate. Might be rubber glove time, I reckon.’
The prison officer looked less than thrilled.
‘Oh, come on,’ Thorne said. ‘Don’t pretend it’s not a perk of the job.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
He was getting careless at work, making silly mistakes, and it wasn’t like him. Not that he never did anything wrong. Now and again, he let his attention wander a little; he was no different from anyone else, in that respect at least, but unlike most people he knew why these things were happening so frequently. He knew it was because he was getting itchy.
He knew he was ready.
Browsing was all a necessary part of it, of course, eliminating those who, for one reason or another, would not be suitable, whittling down the likely looking candidates. He enjoyed that stage of things, no less curious than anyone else when it came to other people’s lives, enjoying how much of those lives he was secretly privy to. That he could observe and document, unseen. Often he would sit down at the laptop after dinner and root happily about, lost in it, until such time as he would glance up at the clock and realise that five or six hours had gone by. Even when he finally turned in for the night he would lie awake, still mentally putting pictures together: her with him, him with her, this or that location. It was absorbing.
But prepping was not doing, was it?
It was time to make a final choice, to get out there and do what he did, because nothing could compare with that. Fun as it was getting all those ducks in a row, nothing came close to the moment when he finally came face to face with the subject he’d selected with such care and skill. Elated after her dream date or licking her wounds after a disaster, it didn’t much matter. Only a second or two, obviously, because there were usually screams to stifle, but those moments would see him happily through the long days and weeks afterwards, back at his computer every night as he clicked and scrolled and put the next adventure together.
When he got itchy again.
He finished his coffee because it was time to get back to work, but even the fact that the fancy new Nespresso machine hadn’t arrived couldn’t spoil his mood. Tonight, he would go home and get busy. He would cross his ‘t’s and dot his ‘i’s. He would make his choice from the remaining faces printed out and pinned up on the wall above his desk. The final three contenders. He would stare until those eager faces were imprinted on his mind, and close his eyes and… yes, it was silly, because there was nobody there to see it, but he would milk the moment a bit, like they did on those TV talent shows.
And the winner is…
That done, the discards forgotten for now, he would check to make sure that arrangements hadn’t changed at the last minute. Because it always paid to be thorough and didn’t women have an annoying habit of changing their mind at the eleventh hour?
Actually, I think I prefer Italian.
Sorry, can we try that new wine bar instead?
There would be some Googling to be done then, maps to be studied and routes chosen. There were layouts of restaurants or pubs to memorise and the best vantage points to be selected, but that took no time at all really, because he had one of those brains, and it was always easier learning stuff when the subject in question was one you enjoyed.
When you had a knack for it.
Then, when it was all done and dusted, and only the creeping hours until his date lay ahead to frustrate him, he would go to bed; calm and content.
To sleep better than he had done in a long time.
FIFTY-NINE
From the moment they had escorted the woman calling herself Rita Fleming out of HMP Warren Park, a young offenders’ institution between Hastings and Folkestone, things had gone much as Tanner and Thorne had expected.
Unfortunately.
The ‘Duchess’ had not spoken during the two-and-a-half-hour drive back to London. Other than to confirm her real name and address, she had said nothing once they’d arrived at Colindale station and booked her into the custody suite. She’d clearly talked plenty during her subsequent phone call however, as within the hour a smartly dressed and no-nonsense solicitor had breezed in, calling the shots. After the compulsory disclosure of evidence – a number of fake ID documents as well as phones and drugs already discovered during a search of premises in Hastings that was currently taking place – there was a ten-minute consultation with his client. The solicitor then proceeded to sit in silence throughout a twenty-minute interview, while next to him Frances Elizabeth Coombs was once again struck all but mute, saying only what her solicitor had instructed her to say.
Those two predictable words.
An hour later, back at Becke House, Thorne watched Tanner prowling back and forth between the walls of his office. She shook her head, then stopped to aim a gentle kick at the leg of his desk.
‘That’s not going to do any good,’ Thorne said. ‘Why don’t you go home and kick the cat? Much more satisfying.’
The Killing Habit Page 29